


tempted

by lyuyu



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Non-Graphic Smut, Thighriding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27268405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyuyu/pseuds/lyuyu
Summary: he calls her the devil.
Relationships: Female Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Comments: 5
Kudos: 32





	tempted

**Author's Note:**

> this started as two separate posts on tumblr, decided to combine them and post the whole thing here :) happy N's autumn special day folks

He calls her the devil when she straddles him (not fully, only his thigh, the other one occupied by yet another precious tome of his,) the word dripping with love and affection, just as she does, leaves a mark on the dark green silk covering his leg, with a wicked smile playing on her lips as she reaches for him.

Nate bites back a soft hiss when her fingertips grace him, touch featherlight and teasing, the subtle sound that tries to escape him muffled by his own teeth sinking into his bottom lip, nearly hard enough to draw blood.

Their eyes are the same shade in the dim light (warm, dark and swallowed by blown pupils,) devouring the mere sights of each other; as far as they’re concerned, hardly anything else exists around them in this moment (apart from the tome balanced on the other leg, taking up half of the space she would much rather claim for herself.)

The library is but a backdrop, this couch and (the half of) Nate’s lap her stage. She can work with only a half too, hips rocking against the smooth fabric of his nightwear, against him. She leans forward, tip of her nose an inch away from Nate’s.

“If I’m the devil,” she smirks, lips hovering over his, “what does that make you?”

“A sinner? Or at least, someone greatly tempted,” Nate answers with a flustered smile. “Still, I’m afraid I have to resist, though you’re certainly making it—”

She quirks a brow, touches him again with more pressure now, and the rest of the sentence gets momentarily stuck in the back of his throat.

“— _difficult_ ,” he manages to spit the word out. His voice is hoarse, tone tense. Devil or not, she spares him the sweetest smile, innocent in all of its hidden deviousness.

He must finish his research, she knows, but frankly can’t bring herself to care. Even _her_ pesky human senses are sharp enough to catch every inch of Nate’s body craving for hers. Short breath, skin alight; eyes hazy, muscles flexed. He could not deny it even if he wanted to, but luckily Nate is a poor liar either way.

And, always so easily swayed when it comes to all things her. He needs no persuasion: this is the most resistance he’s ever given her. The book teeters dangerously, an inch away from falling on the floor.

She lures yet another breathy sigh out of him with her touch alone—and then moves her hand away from him. “I’ll stop bothering you, then.”

Before she can do anything else, Nate’s hand snaps to her wrist.

“No,” his voice is closer to a whisper. “You’re not finished.”

The sudden touch makes her gasp, yet her smile comes back even wider.

“What would you like me to do?” she purrs, but the question remains unanswered, Nate releasing her wrist and setting a hand on the small of her back; he leans in to kiss her, desperate, begging even, for her to finish what she’s started.

There’s no more words spoken, all that needs to be said conveyed in physicality, as a palm pressed against her back, urging her to move again, _touch me again_ , and she does, hand disappearing beneath the dark green, dainty fingers wrapping around him. Her palm is soft and warm against him, strokes torturously long and slow, and so she begins to move her hips again; Nate fears that this may be the end of him, but at least it will be a sweet one.

His name drips and falls from her mouth in the same manner as she does: abundantly. Lovingly. He has little care for if the pants will be ruined after this; he already is.

The silk is soaked and slick and she's bare and wet against it, the scent of her so much, too much, his head spins and it's hard to focus, the dear tome of his only held in its place by his ever tightening grip of it.

(She knows Nate would never discard it carelessly, so it's safer to hang onto it rather than risk interrupting the moment by setting it carefully aside, though it may suffer more damage this way.)

She moves faster, as does her hand. Nate is a heavy-lidded, beautiful mess, lips parted but voice nowhere to be found; so instead, he kisses her again. And again and again and again.

(It doesn't matter, not right now. Were it come to harm, he can mourn it afterwards. For now, his eyes are only on her.)

He swallows her moans whole, only to return them a second later. The heat of her crashes against him in waves, overwhelming, undertaking, and though Nate might not have been truly intoxicated in hundreds of years, now, he feels anything but sober.

Of all the plays he's ever seen, this one takes both the cake and the cherry on top, so mesmerized by her riding towards release, her heartbeat ringing in his ears alongside his name she keeps repeating as though in worship.

She takes a gentle hold of his hair with her free hand, fingers tangling in them, head dropping back as her hips begin to stutter, and he can feel the growing pulsation, it radiates all over him, engulfs him, awakens him. She’s _everything_ and she’s _everywhere_.

Her voice is his. Her scent stains his skin, she’s conquered every inch of him; their hearts beat the same, rapid rhythm so loud it feels as if they’re bursting at the seams.

His pleasure echoes hers, separate but still woven together, the ecstasy running in her veins the same that ravages him, leaves him both breathless and gasping all the same.

She quietens the cacophony, crashes her mouth against his, kisses the air out of his lungs. Red wine tastes on her tongue; hand twisting in his hair, she whimpers softly.

Nate cranes to press his lips to her chest, tongue trailing from there up to the hollow of her throat; one kiss he plants just under her jaw, teeth scraping the sensitive skin.

“Don’t stop,” he breaks the wordless agreement of no speaking, breathing heavy. “You’re so close now, I can feel it.”

His palm presses firmer against her back, coaxes a faster pace and her grip of him falters at first before tightening again, matches the rhythm of her hips, so close, _so close now_ , that Nate is left with no other option but to bury his face into the crook of her neck, drained of all power in her hands—and he wants none, needs none, he’s surrendered long before this.

The euphoria of it all cascaded over him, pulls him under, _this is everything_ , this right here and now. Her thighs tense around his, breath becoming sharp and uneven, she shivers and everything tingles, and the pulsations that leave her and land on his skin feel closer to explosions.

He cranes up to bite gently at her earlobe, kissing behind it after, voice so low and deep and hoarse, the simplest, most beautiful truth whispered as his sight begins to blur, “I love you.”

He doesn’t tiptoe over the edge, not at all; he comes crashing down and burning, she takes him apart piece by piece as she falls too with a shudder that seems to shake the whole library.

(The tome too, falls on the floor; but there will be no mourning.)

And then, it’s quiet. So quiet, their breathing the only sound for long, long minutes. She leans to rest her forehead against Nate’s, his fingers dancing up her arm to toy with the lacy strap of her babydoll absently.

“What’s on your mind?” she asks, whispering, as if afraid to break the delicate silence between them. Nate chuckles softly.

“That if you are the devil,” he murmurs, kisses her (again and again), “I wouldn’t wish to be saved.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @lyuyu ! <3


End file.
